Heaven
by writingmyownhistory-inactive
Summary: Beagle is kissing you, and you think that if this is what heaven feels like, dying might not be so bad. ;Beagle/Georgia;
1. Part One

_"You come to love not by finding the perfect person, but by seeing an imperfect person perfectly."-Sam Keen_

Beagle's hands are toying with the collar of your shirt as he kisses you. This feeling of his lips on yours is one that is so unfamiliar, so foreign to you. For a moment, the sensation does not allow you any spare room for thoughts. You're not even sure if you remember how to breathe. This is your first kiss, something that has been both glorified and understated. This, you realize, is the stuff of fairytales and teenage lore. It is the sun, the moon, the ocean, an erupting volcano.

A funny thought strikes you. He is supposed to be tutoring you, helping you learn, and in a way he is doing what he is supposed to. He is letting you experience one of many firsts, teaching you what kisses feel like and you are thankful for that. You weren't sure if you'd live to see this day; from the time you were born, the clock was ticking. Your lungs swell, not with air but with anger at this disease that is slowly stealing your life away.

You wonder if you'll have any other firsts, you wonder about a lot of things and your mind is everywhere because he is everywhere, the kiss is everywhere and everything. You can't focus. Thoughts flit through your mind like butterflies, one after the other, a meaningless blur. In the sudden tumult, you open your eyes because if you close them you are quickly overwhelmed, and you can finally see him clearly. It's like the kiss he so graciously gave you has simultaneously given you a new set of eyes.

You no longer see Beagle as someone unreachable, that cafeteria worker who is older than you and off-limits. You no longer see this man, who is suddenly becoming a boy because he is blushing as you hold his face in your hands, as Dwight Kimborough, the silent shadow who, on campus, exists to fill a place in the line of staff members that watch over you every weekday. Instead, you see him as a godsend, a wonder, someone who is here to teach you things you had never known before this evening. He is Beagle, he is with you and in this moment that is what matters to you.

"Kiss me again," you plead, and he does. It's a soft touch of his lips on yours, like the first little peck was, but it still feels better than anything else you've ever known. Shocks pass between your eager lips, darting between his mouth and yours to create a pleasant sting. Soon you break apart, out of breath, Beagle sitting there with concern etched into his face while you sway dizzily in place from the lack of oxygen.

"You okay?" he asks kindly in that slow drawl you love so much. "Was that too much for you?"

Shaking your head proves a difficult task when you still feel like you're close to passing out. "No, it was great. Better than great, it was amazing."

His goofy smile makes your heart soar all over again. "I'm glad." Both of you can hear a voice in the distance. You realize it's your mother, telling you that it's time to end the study session.

Beagle sighs regretfully before standing up and tightening the strap of his bag. "I'll be back tomorrow night."

You know that tomorrow is Sunday, so you believe him. And you're not sure what is ahead of you, you can't see what is in your future, but you know whatever you may face is better than what you are leaving behind. After tonight's events, you have become an entirely new person.

It feels wonderful. Suddenly, you think that if this is what heaven feels like, dying might not be so bad after all.


	2. Part Two

[A/N: I guess this is going to be in three segments. Might have to up the rating to M. Yeehaw! I mean...um...yay.]

You sit alone on the bathroom floor, water pouring down onto the mess of shaving cream suds caked on your hands as you twist the spigot of the bathtub. The razor makes one more cautious, shaky pass over your calves before you strip off your shirt and climb into the shower, glaring down at the body you hate.

This is a naked, imperfect, pathetic body that is covered in bruises and scars.

You stand in silent horror, unwilling to accept the truth. This bag of skin and bones and mistakes cannot be your body. It's not even a body, just a lump of useless, ever-bruising flesh that can't possibly house a human soul.

But it is your body. It does house a soul, your soul, no matter how much you wish it would let you go.

You wish you could escape your body, because to you, it's nothing more than this thing that people always stare at.

And you hate it. You hate the way they stare, just like you hate everything else.

You've done what you can to improve your looks. You've just finished shaving. It's the second time in your life that you've held a razor in your hand. The first time was a cold November evening, three hours before your middle school graduation dance, when you tried to remove nonexistent fuzz just to feel better about yourself. Your date never showed, so at the end of the night it didn't really matter whether or not there was hair on your legs.

Right now, though, every bit of fuzz matters. You wish you could get rid of every single stray hair. More infuriating than that, though, are the bruises that won't be hidden from anyone's eyes, even if you use an entire tube of makeup to cover them. The ugly plum color never fades-you've tried to conceal it before, smearing all kinds of paint-like cosmetics into your skin for hours, until you're left defeated and crying into your hands because you will never be beautiful.

And you know that, but you still try.

It's simply impossible not to strive for perfection, even if the effort is futile.

Standing next to everyone else, you feel inferior. You could be face-to-face with the polar opposite of a supermodel and still feel like the ugliest girl in the world.

You slowly lower yourself to the floor, not caring that you're naked and your hair is sopping wet. A sudden wave of sick self-pity crashes into you, leaving you completely helpless.

Gasping sobs explode from your mouth, draining you of the little dignity you have left. As you yell and cry out, you ask yourself what you did to deserve this. You were brought up in a Christian home, and you now catch yourself wondering what kind of God would curse His children with such unfairness, such unjust cruelty.

Maybe there is no God.

*~*~*~*

As you drown in grief, you remember all of those endless, torment-filled days of school before you met Beagle. The teasing and taunting was classic child's play when you were young. One incident in particular stands out in the expansive blur of memories.

She pushed you to the ground, kicked you, and stole your lucky penny. You laid helpless on the hill, cowering against the solid turf for thirty minutes. Even as rain poured down, pelting you from above, you didn't move.

You couldn't move then, and you can't move now.

After some time has passed, you find enough strength inside yourself to finally get up. Thankfully, you realize that no one else was home to hear your little crying jag. That kind of emotional display would be both freakishly embarrassing and revealing. No one else should find out that, on the inside, you're just lost and confused.

There's only one other person you can think of who might understand these feelings, but you're reluctant to tell him about any of this. It's all just too convoluted for anyone else to really grasp-you barely know how to explain it, even to yourself. Emotions like this aren't rational or justifiable.

And you're starting to think they will never disappear.

Trying to distract yourself, you exit the bathroom, picking up your skirt on the way out and slipping it on as you walk to your bedroom. You don't bother with makeup or anything fancy after you've shut yourself in. You simply run your fingers through your hair, pouting stubbornly as you try to make it lie flat. Natural beauty is something you don't have.

You wish you could look gorgeous tonight, for the first time in your life. You'd willingly make it the only time-you would choose to be completely hideous for the rest of your life in exchange for one night.

This has the potential to be the best night of your short, messed-up life.

You're not going to waste a second of it.


	3. Part Three

[A/N: The final segment of this little fic. Had to make up the name of the hotel they went to, because I can't remember it and I don't have a copy of the DVD so I can rewatch that scene.]

Fear is eating at your stomach lining.

No, it's devouring your stomach and every other organ in your body. There are two stones where your lungs should be. You can't remember how to find oxygen in the air you are sucking down like you've just escaped drowning.

You try to calm yourself by pacing around your room. When that fails, you decide to put on makeup after all. It's nothing but a method of distraction. It would be nice if you could just stop thinking—shut off your brain to gain some coherency.

Once mascara has been applied, there's nothing else for you to do. You don't own any other cosmetics—it's a pointless waste of money when your hands shake so much. You're honestly surprised that you figured out how to make makeup work for you instead of against you.

Deciding not to push your luck any further, you check to make sure that the condom is still in your bag and begin the slow, laborious climb down the stairs.

Your mom's boyfriend tries to make small talk in the kitchen, but you answer his questions mechanically because you're looking out the window, straining your eyes in hopes of catching a glimpse of Beagle.

Your attachment to him is inexplicable. But if you had to explain it to someone, you'd start by describing the way his eyes seem to glitter when it's sunny, or the nervous habits he has—biting his lip, running his fingers through his hair, staring at the ground—or even the security he offers you.

You know that his security is the one thing you can always count on.

You're still thinking about all of his odd quirks and how much you've come to enjoy them when your mom walks in, making her way to the sink, but stops when she sees your hair.

You wince internally. For a minute, you'd actually forgotten that it was cut.

"Georgia," she stammers out, incredulous, and it's been so long since you've heard someone besides Beagle or your grandmother use your name that you can almost pretend she isn't talking to you, "holy shit, your hair."

"I cut it." Your face burns. Why is she trying to embarrass you like this? It's just hair. It grows back.

"That's the last time I ever let your grandmother take you anywhere," she sighs, reaching out to touch the unruly cowlick that hangs over your forehead. "You're dressed up." Oh, _now _she notices that you're wearing something besides jeans and a hoodie. You can only hope that Beagle won't be so blind.

"Yeah." You cough awkwardly. "I have a date tonight."

Bad timing. Beagle has just pulled up to the curb.

"He works at your school, doesn't he?" She points an accusatory finger toward the only person you really trust, almost breaking her nail against the glass of the kitchen windowpane.

"Yeah, he does."

As you expected, she launches into a rant. "You're not going on a date with him. Absolutely not. He's too old for you, he's a teacher—"

At this, you hold up a hand, edging toward the door and groping for the knob behind your back. "Actually, he just works in the lunchroom."

You can see some strange emotion reflected in your mother's eyes. She's conflicted, torn between letting you grow up and trying to hold onto your childhood forever. She hesitates, and that one moment of indecision is all you need.

"I'm going. Let me." The words fall out of your mouth before you can stop them. Fed up, you turn to the door and wrench it open.

No one tries to stop you from leaving.

You're free to walk across the yard and climb onto the back of…whatever Beagle used to get here. It looks like a weird cross between a motorcycle and a moped.

"What is this thing?" You ask, straddling it carefully. He laughs and climbs on in front of you, securing you to his body with some kind of bungee cord. With a wave and a roar of the engine, you're tearing down the road.

"It's a motorcycle," he says, sounding proud. "You like it?"

Your press your face into the gap between his shoulder blades and inhale. Breathing in his scent is like coming up for air after being underwater in a pool—there's a strong sense of relief. Beagle's smell can calm you down when you're having a horrible day. It's just one more thing that makes you love him.

"I do." You're not looking out at your surroundings, though you've been down this particular street enough times to know that it's pleasant to look at. Beagle's fast driving is hard to get used to. You just want to keep your eyes closed and stay in your own little world, where you're always safe.

"Where are we going?" Your second question isn't so easy to answer. It makes him pause for a moment, curse under his breath, and turn sharply to the right.

The sudden shift in your center of motion is something that your fragile body can't handle. You blink hard to clear the stars from your eyes and listen over the roaring in your ears for his response.

"The Dune Hotel," he replies, sounding far away. He's hunched over the handlebars, protecting you from the spring wind. You're about to tell him that you'll be fine, that you're always warm, when you see the weather-worn sign standing tall in the distance.

He fishtails to a stop in the parking lot and unties you before jumping down. The sky has grown dark, its color marking that halfway point between day and night.

You can't believe that you're actually here, so close to doing something you've only dreamed about.

Reality finally hits: you're going to lose your virginity tonight. It will happen—you believe this with all your heart.

"Come on." Beagle gently grips your arm, guiding you to the room he's rented for the night. You follow him obediently, shuffling your numb feet against the pavement.

The hotel itself is nothing spectacular. It's basically a room with a bed, a closet, and a t.v. You scan your surroundings and realize two things simultaneously: a) there's a bathroom and b) you're dying to use it.

"I'll be right back," you manage to say, and are quick to relieve yourself. When you walk back into the room, Beagle has taken off his shoes and sprawled out on the bed. His arms are tucked loosely behind his head.

He sees you out of the corner of his eye and pats the empty space next to him. Trying to swallow the nervous lump that has suddenly popped up in your throat, you lay down, letting your tired body sink into the comfortable mattress.

No matter how exhausted you are, you still have one goal in mind.

"I'm gonna take a shower," Beagle says suddenly, jumping up and hurrying into the bathroom.

You wait, feeling yourself drift off to sleep. It's impossible to stay awake right now, no matter how much you want to.

*~*~*~*

"Hey, wake up."

Your tired eyes open slowly, feeling like sandpaper. A huge yawn engulfs you. "Damn. How long was I asleep?"

Beagle checks the clock that's hanging crookedly on the wall. "Thirty minutes, tops. Don't worry about it."

"Okay." You can't help feeling guilty for dozing off. As you gain full awareness, you realize that Beagle hasn't gotten dressed yet.

He's only wrapped in a towel.

You're only wearing a shirt and underpants.

And you definitely can't breathe right now.

You tell yourself that the sudden and total loss of oxygen is the cause of some embarrassing thoughts.

He coughs awkwardly, but doesn't move from his spot by the door. He's still staring at you, his brown eyes boring into yours.

Before you can steady yourself, he comes to sit by you on the bed.

Instinct tells you to move closer to him. You don't think, or breathe, or blink, but you will your deadened limbs to move and they do.

You're in his lap. You're sitting in his lap with your head resting on his chest and your arms hooked loosely around his neck. He presses his lips softly to the top of your head and a spark shoots through your body, turning into a molten river of desire.

You feel overwhelmed by the moment—it's so close now—and you disconnect from your body, watching the girl who is not you as she tries to close the gap separating her from the one she loves.

You're brought back to full awareness when Beagle shakily speaks, breaking the trance-like silence in the room.

"Wait, wait, wait." He holds up his hands, looking like he wants to move away but is afraid to do so. "Don't you think this is moving a little fast? I mean, I like you and all, but…" He sighs, clearly uncomfortable.

"I don't care if you like me or not," you blurt, interrupting him. "I just want to get this over with."

And so it begins, with those blunt words. He must hear the honesty, the desperation, the longing in your voice; he doesn't try to stop you from grabbing the condom. Shaking, you push it into his hands and wait.

The seconds tick by, each tiny fragment of time stretching into eons. Frustrated, you crawl between the sheets, peeling your shirt off as you go.

As he slips under the blanket beside you, the anger dissipates, replaced by an emotion that is far more potent.

You can't name the feeling, but it's raging inside you, hot and wild. One tear leaks from your eye and finally, _finally_, Beagle is unwrapping the condom.

His body slowly presses against yours, gently moving with you as he takes the time to let you get your bearings. This is a first for both of you, uncharted territory that you're travelling together.

You know now that there is heaven on Earth, not a specific time or place, but a person.

To you, Beagle is heaven.


End file.
